Late: The square?holds its panting between
?the last bus and the first argument.
Nowhere / ‘online’ - @someone is ‘winning’..?
A face, a flag, emptiness trending; always.
We desired a just world -?rights, dignity, ‘progress’; doors?that open to merit.
Enlightenment still flashes warning
from the distant rocks - through darkling fog.?
The doors? Gone.
?it will not be alright.?
it is cold.
?the square waits: quiet, tense.?
you are here,?
so am I.
from the conch
whispers come
dissect
distract
blow upon
scintilla branch to intrinsic thought
weighed down
consumed
overwrought
mattering - so magnified
that I can't turn away my eyes
reach for able hand to soothe
what dread could deed undo, disprove
kisses stolen
by long lost words
explored lactic fallacies
become absurd
til endings are not the body expired
but exposure of every cell and every wire
cathartic grip held in awe
control depletes as hem and haw
til sadly swings
and bridges to shame
call time
I must
on the lugubrious game
The clocks have fallen silent in the sand,
their golden faces melting with the heat;
time slips away like water through the hand,
too soft to hold, too strange to call complete.
A barren shore stretches beneath the sky,
where distant cliffs are resting in the sun;
the world appears to whisper, not reply,
as if the day has only just begun.
A tree stands thin, a broken branch of dreams,
its shadow reaching over empty ground;
the stillness hides a thousand hidden screams,
yet not a single echo can be found.
The watches droop like memories left behind,
forgotten thoughts that slowly lose their shape;
they bend beneath the weight of human mind,
escaping every cage and every tape.
This landscape is a doorway into sleep,
where hours dissolve and vanish from our sight;
where time no longer promises to keep
the fragile moments we attempt to write.
transparency is mirrored
you may stare
right through
my chest
only catching
your reflection
in the subterfuge
of rest
the self it splits & triplicates
stays bound by feet alone
an ecstasy of horrors
spliced & given space to roam
I'm undone yet placed on parchment
to bleed & bloom
in equal quarts
a reaching hand
that never grasps
with light & dark
ascending thoughts
all I need is printed
in signs & patterns
I can't read
as I float through all eternity
half-aware of warnings
I didn't fully heed
I speak to the skylights
of your tender soul
in formless forms
in eccentric accents
aching in aloneness...
when tragedies of footprints
remain a sculptured secret ~
like an untitled nightfall
dressed in denied definitions
avoiding the touch
of perception
for mindfulness mirrors
memories I hoard
within titanium trays
of masked melancholy…
but I long for you to wear
chronicles carved within
my cold conscience ~
a universe layered
with moulded memoirs
tell me how it feels
to be a beautiful burden
to the jinxed jewels
feasting upon
scrutinized skin of silence
skeletons of psyche ~
too complex
for concave light...
let me stay ~ stretched
in the still solitary sketch
of surrealism ...
I am not a vision
of gold and glitter
that wicked weavers
can materialize
but an unnamed sight ~
a breathing mystery
the eyes of unfelt dusk
fail to stroll through…
intoxicated on pain
~ an ecstasy etched through angst ~
to never be tamed
to never be told
The day’s flattery flattens into disturbance,
glowering as arms weaken,
my ears seek solace,
a soundproofed room,
lit by candle flickers in the dark,
I miss a peek all I can, trying
with might not to notice
its shadow who's espied me
ignoring audiovisuals
of melted clocks
and tick tocks echoing
In a Dalí pixel I dwell,
in his obscurity I fall
The Sandman
won’t get me,
asleep, not this time
Painting…
artwork
berserk
odd earned
modern
surreal
appeal
bizarre
by far
not banned
unfanned
slash—tore
restored
Symbol…
Based on
Friar John’s
drawing
gnawing
foreseen
cross scene
Christ’s arms
paint psalms
cross floats
gloss boat
Easter
feaster
Colors…
cool tones
browns form
dark sky
eagle eye
bone blends
deepens
blue dream
hue scheme
Technique…
contrast
both vast
pewter
muter
spectrum
none done (perpective never done)
Dalí’s
follies
privileged
sublime
surreal
dreams
strange
detached
zeitgeist
circular
bizarre
blissfully
isolated
translucent
labyrinthine
insightful
extravaganzas
of
eccentricities
pantheon rome
dome
dissolves
before our eyes
transmutes
into
dishevelled
tresses
in need of a comb
Inventive Salvador Dali
a futurist as we can see
Two dancers * in a twirl
gave his art a swirl
"Two Dancers 1949 (dedicated to the subjects dancing)
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.? ? ? ? ? ? ? *
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
In this world so full of drama
I ventured to see the Dalai Lama,
so many problems filled me with dread.
He said breathe deep and let it go,
from your head down to your toe, and
offered me a piece of manna bread..
The wise man shared the bond
between Dr. King and Thich Nhat Hahn,
although these spiritual teachers are now dead..
From different religions that's for sure, the
persecutions they endured, yet non-violence
was always their common thread..
Happy Birthday to Dr. Martin Luther King
n the land of the dead clocks they slither and slink
Not caring about the time, without battery or blink
Like snakes moseying around, they barely move at all
Some linger and languish, others lie against a back wall
How did we get here? The clocks ask each other.
No one has a guess, some are too ugly to smother.
In the land of the dead clocks, time has stopped forever.
How soon do I want to visit? Let’s go with never.
Collaboration With Di11y Da11y
I see you there beneath the sheen
From high atop my neck I lean
Reflect upon the waters glare
Beneath the sheen, I see you there
Keep me stable, inverted trees
In stillness to just be at ease
I exist without judgement or label
Inverted trees keep me stable
In pensive thought, shadows cast
I turn my back to futures past
Uncertainty behind me fraught
Shadows cast in pensive thought
In ivory dreams, in feathered whims
We're not born to contemplate our sins
Don't stagnate, follow rivers, streams
In feathered whims, in ivory dreams
DD/HB/HB/DD
HB/DD/DD/HB
DD/HB/HB/DD
HB/DD/DD/HB
An exquisite drawing in pen and ink,
Though I’m not a fan of the likes of Dali
Allow me the luxury of having to think.
Some I look at and exclaim, “Golly!”
If I am not a fan, I respect their ability,
Though I’m not a fan of the likes of Dali.
Pen and inks require lots of dexterity,
I enjoy paintings if they’re authentic
If I am not a fan, I respect their ability.
I like technique that causes me to think
Expressing the artist’s inner passion,
I enjoy paintings if they’re authentic.
Recognizing the painter’s usual fashion
Helps me to understand his/her work
Expressing the artist’s inner passion.
Some painters I most enjoy have a quirk
An exquisite drawing in pen and ink
Helps me to understand his/her work
Allow me the luxury of having to think.
Written December 8, 2022
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